


These Old Shades

by sgam76



Series: Scheherezade 'verse [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BAMF Anthea, BAMF Sherlock, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, MI6, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft as spymaster, Mycroft is MI6, Sherlock is MI6, Sherlock's last mission, Teen Anthea, Teen Sherlock, painful memories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2019-10-18 11:39:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17580107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/pseuds/sgam76
Summary: Memory has always been Sherlock's best tool--his weapon of choice, in fact. But there have been times in his life when his memory is also his worst enemy. Right now is one of those times.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> This is essentially a "teaser trailer". This fic is the next on my "to-do" list, but it will not be regularly updated until I finish my current book-length work (A Long Walk Down A Dusty Road)--only a chapter here and there at irregular intervals until that point. It's been sitting in my head, though, and poking me strongly enough that I wanted to put it out here as a preview of coming attractions. So stay tuned!
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTE: This takes place AFTER A Long Walk Down a Dusty Road.

There really wasn’t anything exceptional about it. Sad, certainly; graphic, most definitely. But nothing Sherlock and John hadn’t dealt with before, multiple times—nothing that would have led them _here_.

They’d gotten the call in mid-afternoon, and John had been glad to hear it. Sherlock had been perishing with boredom for days, growing increasingly irritable, sleepless and stroppy. Even Rosie hadn’t been exempted—while Sherlock was normally extremely diligent in keeping his flights of verbal insanity confined to hours when the baby was either asleep or at nursery, John had had to step in twice in the past two days to remind the detective that he had an additional audience. The memory of the look of chastened dismay on his friend’s face made John all the happier when Greg rang with the details of this new case.

And, again, the case seemed straightforward enough. A series of murdered young men and boys, left unnoticed in semi-public spaces. Age range 16 to 23. No known relationship between any of the victims (4, at last count); all slashed repeatedly, possibly tortured before death. Ligature marks on wrists and ankles, but no bindings of any kind found in relation to the bodies, so only the final, killing strokes had taken place at their final destinations.

In retrospect, though, Sherlock had been…odd, once he heard the brief details. Glad to have a case, granted. But there had been something moving behind his eyes, something John couldn’t get Sherlock to explain. He insisted he was “fine”. He was always “fine”.

John _hated_ “fine”.

They had made a preliminary review of the earlier case files via Sherlock’s mobile on the way to the scene. No taxi, thankfully, since the location was all the way out in Biggin Hill, almost an hour away—Greg had sent an unmarked car, and Sherlock had begrudgingly agreed to ride in it, though not without a brisk argument first (“ _Ninety quid, Sherlock. Ninety!_ ”). Nothing was available yet on the new drop site, beyond the location. It had only been identified as fitting into the series because of Greg’s request that Met systems flag any deaths within a 100-km radius that fit into the pattern—some sharp PC had actually checked and called NSY, apparently.

They pulled off the A233 onto an old airfield, as their driver pointed to their left. “It’s the old RAF field from the war,” he said. “This part is open to the public. The body’s next to the chapel.” He continued down the narrow road until they reached a grouping of well-kept lawns and buildings, most dating from just after the war by their style of construction. They stopped in front of the church—blond brick, with a tall, narrow bell tower on one side.

A host of emergency vehicles occupied the carpark around the back, and a tent had been erected in one section of the back garden, in an attempt to keep the persistent misting rain off of the crime scene, presumably. (Off of the investigators as well, of course, which didn’t break John’s heart. Standing about, soaking wet, while Sherlock crawled over every inch of a location wasn’t exactly a treat).

They left the car behind and walked towards the mass of investigators. John let Sherlock head over to the body first—he saw Greg’s silver head in one of the furthest groups, and wanted to let him know they’d arrived.

Greg looked up in relief as John walked up. “Thank God,” he sighed. “I was starting to be afraid I’d have to put down a riot if we stayed much longer. Poor kid’s been lying there since last night sometime, and the PC’s been holding the site since 7 this morning.” He looked behind John expectantly. “Where’s your better half?”

John rolled his eyes. “Very funny. He headed over to get a first look at the scene before getting a summary—doesn’t want his first impressions ‘biased by idiocy’, apparently.” He met Greg’s sympathetic glance. “And yeah, he’s been a rare treat the past few days. This should help, but it’ll take a bit for him to get into the swing of it, so be prepared.”

John took the time to grab two mugs of coffee from the provisions tent behind Greg before heading after Sherlock, to make sure the detective had had enough time to finish his initial examination. He arrived at the tent, though, to find it deserted but for a forensic technician who was tagging and bagging tiny bits of debris around the victim.

The man—boy, really—lay half-dressed, on his back in the wet grass. Arms splayed out, palms up. There were defensive cuts on both hands, and the tell-tale bruising and swelling around each wrist and ankle that told of his being tied for a considerable period of time. His throat had been brutally slashed, cut back nearly to his spine, and the pool of blood underneath the body made it clear that death had happened here; this boy had been alive when his captor(s) brought him, tied and likely gagged, to this spot. Numerous other slashes, some visible through slits in his clothing, spoke to an extended period of abuse before death.

John used his mobile to snap a few full-length photos; Sherlock didn’t need them to recall the scene in intricate detail, but John did, though he made a point of deleting all such pictures as soon as a case was completed. There was something unutterably sad about this; the boy, 20 at most, lay where he’d fallen. He was tall, athletic, beautiful in fact—like he’d been lifted off a Greek vase. Bronze skin, dark curls, long lashes, a chiseled Byzantine profile. And somewhere, his mother, father, girlfriend, boyfriend, may not even know yet that he was missing, let alone dead in the grass.

John gave himself a mental shake, sighed, and put his mobile in his pocket, then turned to the technician. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “Do you know where he was going?”

The man shook his head. “He just looked at the body for a couple of minutes. Didn’t move, didn’t say anything, just blinked for, like, three minutes. Then he spun around and took off.”

“What do you mean, ‘took off’?” John barked, alarms suddenly ringing in his head.

“Just what I said,” the technician sniffed. “Never said a word. Spun on his heels and trotted away. Last I saw, he was heading for the car park.”

John dropped the two mugs of coffee on an evidence table and headed off hurriedly to look for Sherlock. His first stop was the car park—nothing, beyond a handful of empty cars and a coroner’s van. He walked back over to the command area, where he found Greg in conversation with the local PC. John waited impatiently for their conversation to finish, then pushed over in front of Greg.

“Did Sherlock come to you?” John asked, hoping it was true. Greg’s head shake confirmed his worst fears.

“Nah, haven’t seen him at all,” Greg said, a worried crease settling on his forehead. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“He didn’t work the scene. He’s not there,” John said. “The tech says he headed towards the car park, but he’s not there either. And, of course, he’s not answering his phone.” John had tried—dialed twice en route from the tent.

“Bugger,” Greg sighed. “Let’s go ask about, then.”

Over the next ten minutes, the story emerged. Sherlock had come charging across the grass (very likely while John was inside the provisions tent getting coffee), stopped briefly to ask where Greg’s car was, then headed off at speed. He was last seen walking quickly through the parked cars, fifteen minutes before.

It was shortly after that revelation that Greg looked, looked again—and realized that Sherlock had taken his car.

 

 

 

 

Initially Greg had been hopeful—all NSY cars had trackers in them, after all. John slapped that one down quickly: “Does Sherlock know that?” he asked. Greg’s face answered for him.

It was nearly impossible to rely on public sightings—Greg drove a nondescript grey sedan, just like millions of others travelling down all the roads around the city. They enlisted Mycroft’s help early on—CCTV turned up a view of the car heading towards the center of the city roughly two hours later, with a timestamp of forty-five minutes after John and Sherlock had arrived at the crime scene. That was it. The car itself finally turned up twelve hours later, illegally parked and abandoned.

They spent several hours at NSY, reviewing CCTV film and conferring with several of Mycroft’s people, to no avail. With no other options to pursue, Greg and John took a panda car back to Baker Street, and were met at the door by a concerned Mrs. Hudson, bouncing Rosie on her hip. Mrs. H had been the first person John called, without result: she hadn’t seen him, and he hadn’t been home. By the time John got there, it was mid-afternoon and Sherlock had been missing for more than 6 hours.

Mycroft arrived at dinnertime, not that any of them wanted to eat. While John’s relationship with the older man had never been easy, they nonetheless had come to a meeting of the minds where Sherlock’s health and safety was concerned, and John was grateful for his presence. Mycroft kept up a steady flow of conversation on his mobile, both spoken and text, but, in the end, was no more successful in finding his brother than Greg and John had been.

John, by 10pm, was desperate enough to go out and look for some of Sherlock’s Homeless Network contacts. They wouldn’t necessarily speak to him, but they knew him well enough that they might help. He collected cash from Greg, Mycroft and Mrs. H, and spent the next two hours wandering through various alleyways and hidden cul-de-sacs, handing out money and notes begging for help to the few faces he recognized. He took a taxi back home, praying Sherlock would be there, annoyed at them all and irritated at the fuss.

He wasn’t.

 

 

 

The breakthrough came at 3am. Mrs. H had headed tearfully downstairs with the baby after a dismal dinner, but Greg, Mycroft and John kept vigil in the lounge, dozing fitfully in their chairs between fruitless phone calls and texts as searchers reported in. John, though, was awake when a quiet knock came on the door downstairs, and was down the stairs in a flash.

By the time he opened the door, the street was deserted. But there on the steps was a broken bit of brick, with a torn piece of paper peeking out from underneath. John pulled it out and darted back into the lighted entryway to read it.

“JOHN DOE ADMITTED TO ST. THOMAS HOSPITAL IN LAMBETH,” it said simply. “HURRY.”


	2. Shade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Mycroft Holmes once memorably said, his brother has demons. But he also has ghosts--they both do, in fact. And the haunting has begun.

_**Shade** : in Greek or Latin mythology, a spirit of the dead residing in the underworld_

 

 

They were at the hospital entrance in less than ten minutes; between the late hour, light traffic and Anthea’s utter disregard for lights, stop signs, pedestrians or other minor annoyances, they never fell below 80 kph the whole trip. Mrs. Hudson’s hurriedly-offered Aston Martin made it seem easy.

Mycroft spent the entire trip on his phone, getting updated on Sherlock’s status (after a spirited and ultimately terrifying argument with a senior hospital administrator). Despite those efforts, the only available news was “serious condition, not immediately life-threatening, currently heading to surgery”.

As Anthea whipped the car to the entrance, they all hopped out and the agent handed over the keys to an anonymous black-suited man who had mysteriously appeared by the front doors. John didn’t even bother to ask.

They were met in the lobby by an anxious junior administrator, apparently called from her bed to deal with Mycroft Holmes in her superior’s stead. The bureaucrat gave her a brisk handshake, and jerked his head towards the inner doors.

“Lead the way,” he said, in tones that would have sounded bored but for the underlying steel. John realized, much later, that none of the rest of them had so much as offered their names, nor did the administrator ask. She had apparently been told that all of this was Above Her Paygrade, which worked out well for everyone.

Mycroft’s phone rang again as they strode down the hall; he answered it without speaking, listened briefly, then replied. “Anthea is with me,” he said. “That will suffice until the rest of the detail can arrive. You can enter the exception under my authority.” Then he hung up and turned the phone off before shoving it in his pocket.

It wasn’t until that point that John realized what this hurried trip had meant: Mycroft had summarily ditched his required security team. Since the debacle of Sherrinford, he had been required to have one with him at all times. In this case, they had presumably been left waiting in their vehicle in front of Baker Street, since Mrs. Hudson’s car was garaged out the back, in the former mews.

The waiting area proved to be someone’s re-purposed office—likely a surgeon, going by the framed diplomas and photos on the walls. Several chairs and a small table had been brought in, with a carafe of coffee, an electric kettle, and a selection of teabags near a mismatched assortment of mugs.

“We…the cafeteria is closed, but we can round up biscuits or the like if anyone is hungry,” the administrator said nervously, all but wringing her hands in anxiety. What on Earth had she been told about them, John wondered, to inspire this kind of flailing?

“No, thank you,” Mycroft said courteously. “I appreciate your efforts. Will someone be able to give us an update on my brother’s condition at arrival, and where things stand now?”

The woman bobbed, like a small bird. “The A&E physician who did the initial triage and treatment will be here momentarily,” she said. “And the surgical staff has been notified as to your arrival. They will send someone with updates as they become available.”

Mycroft dismissed the woman with a nod and a handshake, and the poor woman presumably tottered off to her home and bed, still mystified by her wee-hour visitation from the High and Mighty. The rest of them sighed, chose seats, and started divvying out tea and coffee. No one doubted their wait would be a long one, based on the limited information they currently had.

 

 

 

 

The A&E physician, a young man named Travers John had met once or twice in conferences, showed up about 10 minutes later. He smiled on seeing John, and relaxed slightly from his initial very tense stance.

Mycroft stood up and identified himself. “We know my brother was brought to your department earlier this evening. Please tell us what you can about the circumstances.” He glanced to Greg and John, watching silently from behind him. “You need not mince words. We know he was heavily under the influence when admitted; please don’t edit yourself on my account. I would rather hear the unvarnished truth than a comforting lie of omission. And you may assume that our knowledge of medical terminology is quite high.”

Dr. Traver’s eyes flicked to John, who gave a confirming nod.

“Right, then,” the physician said with a nod. “Well, as you expected, high levels of controlled substances—O.D. level, in fact. It’s a miracle he was still conscious, let alone alert enough to fight his attackers. Cocaine, heroin, bits of what are presumably contaminants used to cut street drugs. Unclear whether this was an intentional O.D.—the fact that he _did_ fight would argue against that. As to his injuries—serious fractures of left tibia and fibula, with some crushed bone. We’ll be stabilizing that with pins and steel plates. Blood flow to the foot looks OK so far. Defensive wounds on his hands, large scalp laceration, concussion but no fracture. Severe bruising of, and hairline fracture to, the left upper iliac crest of the pelvis. Three broken fingers on his right hand, one of which requires surgical repair.” He paused, thinking. “I think that’s most of it. He’s on the table now—ETA for completion, probably another two or three hours. They just took him into theatre about twenty minutes ago. He should recover fully, but he’ll be in here for at least a week, then on crutches for some time thereafter.” He looked up expectantly. “So, what questions do you have for me?”

Mycroft, startlingly, seemed struck dumb, brow furrowed, much like Sherlock when “buffering”. After a moment or two, John stepped into the breach.

“’Fight’?” he asked. “We didn’t…we thought it was just an overdose, and maybe a fall. What fight? Where?”

“Oh, sorry,” Travers said. “I didn’t realize you didn’t know the circumstances. He was brought in after passersby broke up what appeared to be an assault. They were walking home from a late party when they heard what sounded like a cry for help—ran towards the sound, and saw Mr. Holmes fighting with two men. At least one had some sort of heavy weapon—a tyre lever, most likely. That’s what did the damage to the leg and pelvis, and most likely the scalp. Our Good Samaritans called 999 and the attackers ran off, but by that time your brother was unconscious. Breathing was very sketchy, heartbeat slowing. The EMTs intubated en route, gave him Naloxone and kept him going. We didn’t know who he was when he arrived—his phone and wallet were missing, and he was unresponsive. We got a phone call from what were presumably your people shortly thereafter, though, telling us who he was and advising that you were on your way.”

“Did anyone inform the police?” Greg asked, pulling out his phone and typing rapidly.

“I believe so,” the doctor replied. “Pretty sure the rescuers were going to file a statement, according to the EMTs. A PC was at the scene by the time the ambulance arrived.” He looked at John, then the rest of them. “Any other questions? Because, if not, I have some sutures I need to observe.”

John looked to Mycroft, who blinked and recovered from his momentary paralysis. “No, thank you,” the bureaucrat said, his voice stiff. “Please encourage the surgical staff to provide regular updates. We will have my brother’s records transferred from King’s very shortly—I suspect it will prove useful.” Travers nodded, and left.

And with that, they were alone again, but the mood had changed considerably.

Anthea was already typing furiously on her phone. “The records transfer is in process,” she said. “Inspector, have you received the location of the assault yet? That will enable us to access the CCTV footage, if there is any.”

Greg nodded, reading off the address from his phone as Anthea went back to typing almost too fast to see. “The PC hasn’t put in his formal report yet, but I got them to send me the transcript of the 999 call. The search of the area for the attackers is still in progress—nothing on that, yet. Maybe the CCTV will give us more to go on—my lot probably couldn’t get it until tomorrow, well, later today, considering the time.”

Anthea nodded. “Should be coming through shortly,” she said. “The IT staff is rather limited this time of night, but we’ve pulled in a couple of extras.”

And so it proved—ten minutes later, they were booting up a borrowed laptop and watching as slightly-blurred, black-and-white footage of an empty street corner began to play. Anthea tapped several keys and the resolution improved slightly, just in time to see a dark-clad figure stagger out of a narrow alley at the far right of the picture. It was Sherlock, his coat flapping in the breeze, scarf and gloves missing despite the cold. As he tottered down the pavement, using one hand on the brick wall of a building to steady himself, two men appeared from the left. They moved slowly, staying in the shadows, while they observed the obviously-impaired man opposite.

The situation deteriorated rapidly, the two attackers darting in, shoving Sherlock against the wall, where he caromed off and tumbled to the pavement. One man moved to push Sherlock’s hands aside and paw his pockets to pull out valuables, but the detective managed to push him off and struggle back to his feet, beginning to fight in earnest, though his moves were eons slower than his usual quick, lethal flow. Attacker One was clipped on the side of the head and fell; Attacker Two produced a foot-long rod and began flailing away at Sherlock, who held his arms up defensively before falling again, this time staying down. The rod struck, once, twice, three times, as Sherlock writhed on the ground. Just then, though, two more men ran in from the right, shouting and holding up a phone, and the attackers both ran off. The scene ended as the rescuers bent over Sherlock’s inert form.

Greg’s voice finally broke the silence. “Jesus,” he moaned. “And the worst part is, we’ll likely never catch them.”

“Yes, we will,” Mycroft said bluntly. “Though you will likely not hear of it.”

 

 

 

 

The night wore on. They took turns dozing, drinking coffee or tea, going for aimless strolls down near-deserted hallways. A surgical nurse popped in twice, with reasonably encouraging news: surgery progressing with no notable problems, though the fixation of the fractures was proving more complex than anticipated. Sherlock was expected to be in Recovery by breakfast time.

By 6, they were exhausted, irritable and bored. Anthea and Greg volunteered to go down to the cafeteria, which was now open, and bring back an early breakfast for all, leaving Mycroft and John to await further news.

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in his chair, putting aside his phone after yet another flurry of texts. “It would be helpful to know what caused Sherlock’s…reaction,” he said suddenly. “It has been some time since such an event occurred, especially one so severe.” The tone was dispassionate, but John spoke “Holmes” well enough now to hear the concern behind the words.

“He…we had just arrived at the crime scene,” John said. “I wasn’t with him, but one of the techs told me he just stood there and blinked for several minutes, then took off. I didn’t see anything startling or disturbing, beyond the fact that there was a dead boy on the ground.”

Mycroft shoved himself to his feet with a groan. “Then perhaps Inspector Lestrade can share the details,” he said, heading towards the door. “I think it’s important to—”

“Wait,” John said. “I took some photos. Maybe you can start with those?” He pulled the mobile out and flipped through to open the picture app, then held it out. “Not sure the resolution’s all that great, but they’re pretty clear overall.”

Mycroft took the phone and clicked on the first photo, as Greg and Anthea returned, their hands full of bags and cups that smelled delicious. It took a moment or two for John to realize the older man hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, was staring silently at the screen of John’s phone, brow knitted. He was dumbfounded to see Mycroft’s face work momentarily before smoothing back into an expressionless mask.

Mycroft jerkily held the phone out to Greg, who looked on with concern. “I believe you will find the boy’s name is Quinn Chapman,” he said, his voice tight. “I have not—I only ever saw his photo, and it has been fifteen years. But he is very like—Sherlock and I knew his brother,” he said, more inarticulate than John had ever seen him. “He looks very like his brother,” he finished softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titles come from names and types of ghosts found in different cultures across the world.


	3. Yuangui

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is out of surgery, though it's not quite smooth sailing as yet. The downtime gives John the opportunity to ask Mycroft for information. He's not looking forward to it.

**_Yuangui_** — _Chinese spirits of persons who died wrongful deaths_

 

After Mycroft’s stammered announcement, Greg Lestrade left, after making sure that someone would give him regular updates on Sherlock’s condition as soon as they were available. “Gotta get started on this poor dead kid—finding an address, notifying family…”

“I can give you an address,” Anthea said, and pulled up her mobile. “And family contacts, though you’ll need to confirm they’re still local.” She paused long enough to send a text, then continued. “Quinn would be, um, 21 or 22 now—perhaps not living at home, but it’s highly likely his family will still be in the area.” Her face briefly mirrored the sadness Mycroft had shown, then calmed. “It’s a very large family, but they’re, they were, quite close. Quinn is…was the youngest of 9.”

“Um…you’re gonna need to tell me how you both knew him at some point,” Greg said carefully. “Not now, but…”

Mycroft nodded. “I will contact you this evening,” he said, and Greg hesitated, as if wanting to say something, then shook his head ruefully and left. Anthea looked after him, then shot a troubled look at Mycroft that the Great Man didn’t see, though John did.

“I should go as well,” she said reluctantly. “The service detail has arrived and are in the surgical theatre waiting area. And someone needs to return Mrs. Hudson’s car.”

Mycroft roused himself from his distraction. “Of course, my dear,” he said. “Once you’re done, you may return here, or go home and catch some sleep. We will keep you advised on Sherlock’s progress.” Unsaid was the understanding that Mycroft would be staying. As John looked on in bemused surprise, the agent reached out and clasped her—friend’s?—employer’s?--shoulder briefly before walking silently out.

John had just mustered the nerve to carefully ask Mycroft what was going on when a brisk tap came on the door, and a tall, handsome older woman entered. She turned first to Mycroft. “Carmen Alvarez,” she said briskly, holding out a firm hand to shake. “Mr. Holmes’ orthopedic surgeon.” As Mycroft murmured his name, she turned to John. “And you are Dr. Watson, I believe. Listed as his GP.”

“Yeah,” John said. “His brother and I are both medical proxies as well,” he continued, gesturing to Mycroft.

“So I was told,” she said. “First things first—he’s doing well, generally speaking. Plates have been inserted and the bones are stable, and he’s in Recovery. But we have something we need to talk about.” She looked to John. “You know that copies of his records from his post-gunshot treatment were sent over, yes?”

He and Mycroft both nodded. “I presume this has relevance to your question?” Mycroft said, in a detached tone that would have given anyone who didn’t know him well the impression that he was unconcerned.

“It does,” the surgeon said. “We’ve had a few minor cardiac issues—skipped beats, irregular rhythms. All resolved with care, but it’s an indication his heart is working harder than I like to see, and our anesthetist agrees.” She looked at John. “If I’m reading his records correctly, he had a small perforation in his pericardium, which caused him a bit of trouble, yes?”

John nodded. “Yeah, early on,” he said. “Mild cardiac tamponade, persistent bleeding until they found the defect. But it resolved after pericardiocentesis and surgical correction of the tear once they found it. He hasn’t needed any further treatment, and there’s been no indication of any kind of cardiac issue since, as far as I’m aware.” He looked to Mycroft. “Has there?”

“You would know if there had been,” Mycroft said, with an exhausted sigh. “It’s not the kind of thing that would have been kept from you.” _Unlike other things_ , John’s hindbrain supplied helpfully.

The surgeon nodded. “I wouldn’t have thought so, given his level of apparent fitness before this injury, but wanted to make sure. It’s most likely that he has some mild deficit due to scarring, which only became an issue after the combined insults of overdose, physical attack and general anesthesia. Bottom line, though, I want to give his system ample time to settle down before bringing him fully back to consciousness, especially considering his likely pain levels when he does. We’ll keep ahead of that as best we can, of course, but his notes indicate an ongoing issue with addiction and a strong suggestion that pain medication be light and of limited duration.”

John nodded in his turn. “Yeah, the least meds he can handle, certainly. As long as he’s not lying there in agony.”

“Agreed, though his dosages will need to be fairly high initially,” Dr. Alvarez said. “We can manage gradual withdrawal in-house; he’ll be here a week or so, regardless. Plenty of time. But that takes me back to my current suggestion. Unless you have some reason to think it’s contraindicated, I want to keep him sedated for another 8 hours. We let him rouse briefly in Recovery and he immediately starting throwing rogue beats, perhaps a response to pain. It’s my hope that a little additional time under will let everything settle down without any need for intervention on our part.”

John looked at Mycroft, who nodded briskly. “Sounds like a good idea,” John said. “Will you keep him in Recovery the whole time, or…”

The surgeon shook her head. “We’ll shift him to the cardiac unit shortly. He doesn’t really need full ICU, but I’m not comfortable without high-level heart monitoring. I’ll have someone come get you as soon as he’s settled, shall I?” She looked at Mycroft with a sardonic grin. “I understand that a private room has been deemed advisable, because of ‘security issues’. Would that be his security, or yours?”

Mycroft gave a rusty chuckle. “A bit of both, Doctor,” he said. “We both have too much in our heads at any given time, and much of it is not for public consumption.”

 

 

 

 

Twenty minutes later, they were established in a good-sized room—obviously normally used for two patients, but now equipped with two comfortable chairs and a small table. Sherlock lay in oblivious slumber in the cot, his colouring only slightly less pale than the sheets, though bruising obscured much of his face. His numerous monitors had been turned to their lowest volume, the lighting dimmed and blinds closed. Someone, clearly, had been informed of their patient’s sensory issues, though right now that patient was registering nothing at all.

The foot of the cot had been elevated, and Sherlock’s left leg was raised on two pillows, the sheet drawn aside to provide easy access for his nurses. John saw Mycroft’s subtle flinch as he noticed the external fixative pins and frame protruding through his brother’s bandages and skin.

“I know it looks awful, but it’s not really painful after the first day or so,” John said. “They’re necessary in this case—the bones needed more support than just a cast could provide. The external pins and struts help stabilize the bones and make things heal a bit faster.”

“He will find that very difficult to deal with,” Mycroft said. “Not the pain—just the presence.”

John realized the older man was correct—Sherlock would find that constant awareness excruciating. “I’ll have a chat with his orthopedist before they wake him—maybe they can limit the use to just the first couple of days, until the worst of the swelling goes down, and then give him a modified, braced cast. It’s worth asking the question, at least.”

Mycroft moved closer to the cot, those sharp grey eyes darting over his brother’s damaged form—the large bandage on his head, the huge bruises covering his arms and hands, right hand braced and heavily bandaged as well. “He has to stop this,” the bureaucrat said softly. “How many times can he dodge the hangman? How many times, before he does irreparable damage to himself?”

“From your mouth, to God’s ear,” John sighed.

They settled into an uneasy quiet, Mycroft working steadily on his laptop and phone, John fitfully watching telly and trying to work out what, if anything, he wanted to add to his blog. He stepped out after the first hour, figuring 8 a.m. was late enough to make his necessary calls.

Mrs. Hudson was first, of course. “He’s, well, he’s not _fine_ , but he’s in no danger,” he told her. “He won’t be up to visitors for a day or two, but after that I’m sure he’d be glad of some biscuits and a hug, whether he admits it or not. I’ll be home once he wakes, at least for a while—should be late afternoon, I’m guessing. Maybe we can have dinner together, you, me and Rosie? And then I’ll come back to spend the night here once we get Rosie down for the night.” Leaving Sherlock alone in a hospital room overnight just wasn’t an option—the detective tended to wake disoriented and panicked, and it went badly for all concerned.

The second call was to Greg Lestrade, who gave a grateful sigh when he heard John’s voice. “I was working myself into a lather, afraid something’d gone wrong,” the detective said. “Glad to hear he’s in a room now, even if it isn’t quite as smooth sailing as we’d hoped. Is Myc still there?”

“Yeah, he wanted to stay until Sherlock woke up. So this is now MI5, MI6 and Whitehall in miniature, I guess—he’s working away, seems to have forgotten I’m there, for the most part,” John said. “Didn’t even notice when I left, I expect.”

“Oh, he noticed,” Greg said drily. “Lay you odds he’ll tell you exactly where you’ve been and what you’ve done, too.” He paused, cleared his throat, then continued, sounding mildly embarrassed. “Listen, um…can you see if you can get anything out of him about this poor kid? We haven’t tracked down the family yet, though we’ve got some good leads. But it’s obviously something, well, _bad_ , if it’s affected both of them like this, even after so many years.”

John sighed. “Can’t you do that?” he said, in what even he admitted was a whinge. “You’re the detective, mate.”

“And you’re the doctor-cum-best friend-cum-babysitter,” Greg said. “It’s in your job description, pretty sure.”

“Bastard,” John sighed, and hung up to go do his duty.

 

 

 

 

John swung by the cafeteria before he returned to Sherlock’s room. His ostensible reason was to collect tea for himself and Mycroft; the real one, he admitted to himself, was to delay that return. Attempting to pry information from the Most Observant Man in the World was fraught for all parties involved, and usually yielded very poor results.

When he reached the room and swung the door open, he was unsurprised to see Mycroft still working away. He _was_ surprised, though, when the bureaucrat looked up, glanced up and down his form, and sighed.

“Whatever you’re concerned about, John, I’d prefer you simply asked. I am too exhausted to worry about niceties at this juncture, but I will endeavour to at least be courteous, if not forthcoming,” the Great Man said. The shadows under those grey eyes backed him up.

John gave a bark of laughter, then held out the extra cup. “Here,” he said. “Consider it a bribe. Greg Lestrade’s made me the designated sacrifice, so let’s just get it over with.”

Mycroft took the cup and held it in both hands, enjoying the warmth. “I’m unsure how much bearing what I know will have on that poor boy’s death,” he said quietly. “It was all a very long time ago. I would not have reacted so strongly were I not already…” his voice trailed off. He took a ruminative sip of the tea, eyes down.

“Stressed?” John said gently. The older man nodded, still sipping his tea.

“For what it’s worth,” John continued, “it may _not_ have much to do with this case. But whatever it was, it brought Sherlock to this,” he waved his hand at the still figure in the cot, “and you to this.” He nodded at Mycroft, looking curiously small in his chair. “Maybe…I dunno. Maybe you need to tell it, for both your sakes, and then we’ll see afterwards if it’s relevant?”

Mycroft raised his chin, looking thoughtfully at his sleeping brother. “We had an agreement between us,” he said finally. “In order to continue our relationship, to enable us to reach, well, if not forgiveness, then at least _forbearance_ , we chose not to speak of it. Not to use it to score points against each other. I’m unsure if Sherlock ever discussed it with his therapist; perhaps he should have, given this reaction. I have said nothing, myself, once the necessary notifications were made and final reports were filed.”

“Forgiveness?” John said. “Who, or what, needed to be forgiven?”

Mycroft gave a wry grin. “Oh, me, of course,” he said. “Since, at its core, I bear most of the blame. But I couldn’t truly ask for forgiveness, since I have to acknowledge that, in the same circumstances I would make exactly the same choices that I made at the time. And forgiveness requires repentance, or so I’m told.”

He put down his tea, and looked back at his brother. “As I said, the boy’s name is Quinn Chapman. His brother, his much older brother, was named Oliver. Many years ago, Oliver, Sherlock and Anthea worked for me. In the course of that employment, he was captured and severely injured.” He fell silent, fingers working fretfully at his empty cup.

“And?” John said gently, when that silence showed no signs of breaking.

“I abandoned him, and he died,” Mycroft said, turning his attention back to John. “There was a great deal more to it, of course,” he continued briskly, in the tone of voice Sherlock often used to distance himself from emotional things. “But I suspect you will not be content with that answer, and we have nothing else to do at present. And, if this story is to be told, it needs to happen before my brother wakes, since I will not be discussing any of this within his hearing under any circumstances. Would you like me to continue?” he asked, still in that deceptively detached tone.

“If you’d like,” John said carefully.

Mycroft gave a sound that might have been laughter, under other circumstances. “I should like to bury it deep enough that neither I nor my brother remembered a single moment,” he said. “But here we are.” He took a deep breath. “It began in Germany…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of medical "stuff":
> 
> Cardiac tamponade--the heart is contained within a tough little sac, the pericardium. If it becomes filled with blood or fluid, the heart becomes compressed and can't beat effectively. It's a medical emergency, obviously, but can resolve quickly with appropriate treatment.
> 
> Pericardiocentesis--the surgeon inserts a long needle into the pericardium to drain the excess fluid. If you saw Dr. Strange, this is what Christine was doing to him when he was on the table in the operating theatre.
> 
> External fixatives--these are used in severe fractures, to stabilize the bones. They look awful but aren't exceptionally painful after the initial period. Here are some pictures: https://www.alamy.com/stock-photo/leg-external-fixator.html. You can understand why someone with sensory issues would find these horrifying, I think!


	4. Apparition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last mission begins. There's music, sulking, and a whole lot of Irritated Anthea. But she's entitled, all things considered.

**_Apparition_ ** _\-- A supernatural manifestation of a person (dead or living), animals or objects. Ghosts are apparitions of dead people._

 

 

**_Munich, November 2000_ **

****

**_Anthea_ **

 

It was only 11 am, and it had already been a long day. Anthea, trapped in a smallish hotel suite with the two most annoying adolescents in the known world, would have sold her soul for a reason to be elsewhere. Sadly, none appeared.

“But why can’t we at least go out and have a walk around?” Sherlock whinged, for the third time in the past hour. “It’s not like we’ll be endangering the mission in any way. And there’s nothing to _do_ here.”

“Because your brother said so,” Anthea snapped, finally reduced to nursery tactics. Sherlock gave a thwarted huff and collapsed bonelessly onto his back on the sofa.

“Well, as to that, we’re likely going to be spending considerable time locked together in rooms anyway,” Ollie observed from his position by the window. “Might as well get used to it.” He gave her what he likely believed was a Mysterious Look.

“Enough, you _utter_ brat,” she said bluntly. “Not in the mood for it, what with Tall-Dark-and-Sulky over there throwing a wobbly as well. Why are we likely to be lurking in rooms together, then?”

“Because we must get our Boy Genius prepared for his starring role,” Ollie drawled. “Since he is the one who will be doing all the heavy lifting in this production.”

“How do you come to that conclusion?” Anthea said. “Last I heard, it was still undecided who was going to be taking point.”

The tall young man gave her a speaking look. “I,” Ollie said, waving up and down his form grandly, “am young. You,” he said pointing one long finger at Anthea, “are a child. But Sherrrrlock, here,” waving both hands at the skinny figure draped along the sofa, “is a fetus with exceptionally long legs. He will be _perfect_ ; the age limit is 18 and under. While you could certainly pass, all things considered, you don’t have musical or artistic skills up to the challenge. I’m six years too old and look it, even though my singing would probably pass muster. Which leaves us with our Junior Master, who looks 15 at best, and his enviable violin mastery. His brother says he’s _exceptional_ , you know,” he added, with a wide-eyed look at Anthea.

“And the horse you rode in on,” Sherlock (formerly known as “Lock”, and now taking no prisoners in his insistence on his new, “professional” name) drawled from the sofa, without opening his eyes.

Ollie clutched his non-existent pearls. “Such language,” he wailed. “Your tutor will be _appalled_.”

Anthea resisted the urge to smack both of them. “All right, enough,” she said sternly. “Clearly you know something you’re perishing to tell us about this mission. Get on with it, and spare us the theatrics.” Though she had to admit Ollie’s theatrics were usually pretty entertaining, teasing Sherlock did _not_  typically result in a pleasant afternoon for all.

“You’re mean,” Ollie said with a pout, but complied nonetheless. “But I confess I’ve been dying to tell you. And Our Leader will be here shortly to deliver the same news anyway, so where’s the harm?” It was a rhetorical question but, being Ollie, he ostentatiously waited for an objection before continuing.

“It’s quite simple,” he said, when no such objection appeared. “We know that Our Leader will be personally involved in this scenario—that is, ‘hands-on’ as opposed to ‘man behind the curtain’. That means that a talent that he has, one not found in other members of the team, is required. Our pubescent associate is a violinist, almost certainly about to enter an international music performance competition. That means auditions, which means practice, which means a music tutor. Now I, granted, could probably pass as a tutor—I did go through music education for years, after all. But my background was voice, not orchestral. And I could not be that essential _extra_ thing that a violin soloist requires, at least up to the point of the on-stage performances. And that is?” he concluded, giving a condescending look, certain that his audience would not be able to answer.

“A pianist,” said Anthea and Sherlock simultaneously, though in very different tones. Ollie’s mouth made a discontented moue.

“Spoilsports,” he muttered.

 

 

 

 

In retrospect, Ollie was right: it _was_ obvious. The mission was being undertaken at the request of Interpol, but there were certainly reasons for MI6 to be involved anyway—3 of them, in fact. What was startling, honestly, was the fact that no one from the British side had started an investigation until Interpol asked for their involvement.

The Pan-Europe Excellence in Performance competition (referred to in the press, of course, as the Peeps) was an institution, attracting widespread interest and innumerable international followers. Run by a nonprofit foundation and now in its thirtieth year, it had produced numerous young champions who were now superstars on the international music scene: five world-class conductors, four stellar composers, and any number of opera and solo instrumentalists, from violinists to pianists to trumpeters. There had never been a breath of scandal associated with the Peeps—no bribery schemes, no dishonest judging, no hideous stage parents attempting sabotage. It was all ethical, all inspiring, all for the benefit of the young performers and the musical world at large. Children were nurtured and mentored as needed by chaperones provided by the foundation, in addition to any family members or carers along for the ride.

What was less-known until Interpol brought it up was the fact that, in the past ten years, ten contestants had gone missing, either during or immediately after the end of the competition. Three had been UK citizens. The reason it hadn’t been connected before was the fact that, almost without exception, the missing contestants came from atypical, often broken families: no parents, absent/non-involved parents, alienated siblings. No one noticed immediately that the children were missing, since going long periods without contact was the norm rather than the exception. Their schools, if they attended one, assumed they were staying with family; their families didn’t follow up. It was sad, but logical.

Of those who went missing after the competition ended, they were never the ultimate winners; they were those who won their subdivisions, occasionally (i.e., instrumentalists, or singers) but failed to take the overall prize. And because they failed to achieve the top place, their absence didn’t generate the level of press coverage that a winner’s disappearance would have. No small part of that was the fact that the realization of a disappearance often came months after the end of the competition.

Those who were missed during the competition itself were presumed to have succumbed to homesickness or nerves—as many as 20% of the contestants withdrew for one reason or another every year. And because they had “withdrawn” from the competition, there was no formal follow-up. Their carers, sometimes overworked social agencies in the absence of parents, were left to wonder if the children were runaways, made frantic by the pressure of competition, lured away by unscrupulous hangers-on, or gone missing by misadventure—an auto crash, a mugging gone wrong. Because each child went missing in a different jurisdiction (and, typically, a different country), there was no reason for police forces to search for similar cases—as far as they were concerned, there were none.

Whoever this kidnapper was, whatever their motive, they had thought this through _very_ carefully.

Their downfall, at least to the point of bringing the cases to Interpol’s attention, was an unusually involved boarding school teacher. Her student, an exceptionally promising singer and scholarship student, had gone off to the Peeps competition in the company of one of the foundation’s supplied chaperones. The child was an orphan but for a distant, overworked cousin who only remembered the boy’s existence when school terms let out and someone had to come collect him. When the boy didn’t return to school after the summer break, and she discovered to her horror that the cousin hadn't seen him since he left for the first auditions, she contacted the chaperone, and was astounded to be told that the boy had been missing from his room the morning after his performance and was presumed to have left on his own, despite the fact that the child was 16 years old and penniless. That was the last time anyone saw him. The teacher contacted police the same day, and a chance discussion with another officer by the PC that took the report led to a mention of a similar case reported six years before, in London. By the end of that week, Interpol was involved, and the remaining eight cases identified. It had taken nearly six months, though, to put together a workable plan, since it had to revolve around the yearly competition cycle.

 

 

 

The case had ultimately devolved to MI6, and to Mycroft Holmes’ brief, two days ago. The team leader had chosen Ollie, Anthea and Sherlock for this mission for one simple reason: they were the youngest members in Mycroft’s group, the only ones (realistically) who had a chance of infiltrating a competition geared to contestants 18 and under.

When Mycroft showed up ten minutes later, Anthea had been just short of calling him and demanding his presence, or she couldn’t be held responsible for her actions. Sherlock had instantly recognized the truth in what Ollie said, and was livid; Ollie was enjoying it entirely too much. She hated both of them.

Well no, not really. But she didn’t like them much at present.

As soon as the older man entered the room, the bickering began.

“No one will believe I am a child,” Sherlock sniffed. “Surely we can enlist a summer intern or something for this effort?”

“I’m assuming I’m a bodyguard,” Ollie chirped. “Does that mean I get to carry a gun?”

“Can I kill them now?” Anthea begged. “Please?”

Mycroft blinked, then turned to each in turn. “No. No. And no.” He placed his briefcase on the coffee table and dropped into an armchair with an exhausted sigh.

Anthea felt just a tiny shimmer of remorse. It was apparent that sitting in a hotel room with the Twins From Hell wasn’t necessarily the worst morning, after all.

“What happened?” she asked, stepping forward to offer him a cup of tea from the still-warm pot. He accepted thankfully.

“I have just spent two hours on a conference call, explaining to various mid-level bean-counters why a succession of upper-end rail and air tickets, and high-range hotel accommodations, will be required for the three of us. Sherlock, of course, will be covered by the foundation, but that stipend does not extend to assistants and hangers-on, as the competition will certainly view the rest of us. I believe you will be able to stand as the required chaperone, though it can’t be guaranteed, but that still leaves Oliver and me, and we need to have sufficient funds available to address all contingencies,” he said. “I had to refer to ‘ _ten dead children’_ entirely too many times to be seemly.”

“And how, exactly, are you going to explain the useless expense to those same bean-counters when I am exposed as a _grown man_?” Sherlock snarled. “Since that will almost certainly happen.”

Anthea had had enough. “To begin with, you’re _not_ a grown man. You are nineteen, and this is your ‘gap year’, or so you said. Get over yourself.”

Sherlock pulled back in outrage, while Ollie snickered.

But she was on a roll now. “And you too, Oliver Chapman. You don’t have the excuse of not being adult. Stop poking the tiger and act like it.” Ollie flinched as it she’d slapped him. She almost had.

Mycroft blinked into the ensuing silence. “Well put, my dear,” he said finally, as Sherlock glared in the background. “And given that we need to move to the competition site within the next four hours, I suggest we walk through our approach, and take any initial necessary steps before time gets away from us any further.”

He opened the briefcase and pulled out several pages of notes, separating the copies and passing them to each team member. “The basic play is this: we know that the abductor has targeted children coming from atypical families—those with no parents, absent parents, neglectful parents. In this instance, then, I will be Sherlock’s hired pianist and music tutor, not his brother—I will be brisk, professional and, most of all, _distant_. Anthea, you will be his older sister, mainly along as a nominal ‘chaperone’, but in reality here to party, lounge about and sponge off of your absent parents in a variety of upscale European venues. This gives us the advantage of having someone easily able to go outside of the performance halls for extended periods without raising eyebrows. It will also lead to Sherlock being largely on his own unless in tutoring, rehearsal or performance.”

“Absent parents?” Sherlock asked suspiciously, drawn in despite himself. “Who can afford to send along a chaperone that they must pay the freight for?”

Mycroft nodded. “Mm,” he said, “and a bodyguard of sorts, Oliver, though most of your time will be spent ‘protecting’ Anthea, your assigned target. The family background will be of basic Eurotrash: endless amounts of money, children farmed out to paid caretakers by parents who are indifferent to them and unaware of their activities so long as no problems arise. We will make it clear that Sherlock has not actually seen his parents in several years, and decided to pursue the competition on his own.”

Sherlock blinked in his turn. “That’s…not a bad concept,” he said slowly. “But I still maintain no one will actually buy me as 17.”

“No,” Mycroft said with a smug grin. “You’re 15, actually. Young enough that you’re not able to travel unescorted, realistically.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock sneered, and stomped off to the sofa in a huff.

Mycroft raised his voice just enough that Sherlock couldn’t claim to not be able to hear. “Your first audition is at 10 tomorrow morning. You are registered as William Scott; the detailed biographical details are in your folder. I presume you have an appropriate piece prepared that you can use? I will need to secure the accompaniment score, so I will need the details by this afternoon.”

“The Handel G-minor,” Sherlock sighed, resigned to his fate. “I presume you still know the piano.”

Mycroft nodded. “Though I will secure the sheet music for both of us, just in case. In some cases the proctors wish to have the score in hand during the auditions.”

Sherlock sneered. “If they don’t already know _that_ piece, it doesn’t say much for their expertise.” He paused before continuing. “And where’s my violin? We need to at least run through the piece a few times before the audition.”

Mycroft flinched minutely—only someone who knew him well could tell, but both Anthea and Sherlock did.

“What now?” Sherlock demanded. “I have to have it—I can hardly impress international judges with an inferior—”

“Not inferior,” Mycroft interjected hurriedly. “Just not yours. Yours is too valuable, too _noticeable_ , for a child of _nouveau riche_ parents to have. But I have secured the loan of two excellent, though newer, instruments from the London Philharmonic. You can take your pick. And we already have rehearsal space reserved this evening at the hotel, including a very fine piano. The Torbräu—only 10 minutes’ walk from the Gasteig. We already have reservations, so we can check in after lunch.”

“Great,” Ollie suddenly said, having been ignored for too long, by his standards. “So, I have two questions: first, when do I get my gun, since I’m the bodyguard and all? And second, when do we go get Sherlock fitted for his short trousers and knee socks?”

Anthea threw a magazine at him. Two, in fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The piece Sherlock will use for his audition is the Handel Violin Solo Number Two in G Minor. It's lovely, and readily available on YouTube. I can just hear him playing it.
> 
> The Peeps exist solely in my imagination. But wouldn't it be lovely if there really was something similar?
> 
> And you're going to see a fair amount of my Guilty Secret background in this fic. From high school through university and beyond, I was a semi-pro trumpet player (at a time when female trumpets were pretty thin on the ground). So I am very familiar with the world of music competitions and auditions. I'm having to do research on the actual violin pieces, since that's not really my area of expertise, but the rest of this is a real blast from the past for me.


	5. Poltergeist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The preparation for the Peeps begins. The digs are nice, but Ollie feels slighted, and Sherlock is losing his mind. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One important note: You'll notice that the relationship between the brothers is rather different in this story than it is today. That's by intent, and is part of what this story is about.

**_Poltergeist—German a disruptive entity that haunts a particular person via strange noises and even petty physical attacks._ **

****

****

**_Sherlock_ **

 

Sherlock had to hand it to his brother—the violins he secured were indeed of superior quality, more than acceptable for the task at hand. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t continue to complain about the lack of his own exceptional instrument, of course, but he would at least leaven it by acknowledging the offerings were marginally adequate. It was important to maintain standards, with Mycroft. Give him an inch, he’d take a marathon.

The hotel, as well, was—well, “opulent” was probably the appropriate term. Certainly the suite a uniformed flunky escorted them to was that—large, airy rooms, sybaritic furnishings and conveniences, hot and cold running servitors panting to do one’s bidding. The furniture, though rather aggressively modern, was nonetheless of the highest quality and scrupulously clean; the two en suite bathrooms were a designer’s dream. From Sherlock’s point of view, the best part was the lack of fluorescent lighting, the bane of his existence in most public spaces. The not-quite-audible buzzing of such fixtures were guaranteed to send his hypersensitive hearing and eyesight into a frenzy, leading to the need for a lie-down in a quiet, dark room. Or, occasionally, a closet.

Sherlock, Anthea and Ollie were in a two-bedroom suite, with a large shared living space containing a fold-out sofa bed for Ollie.

“I don’t even get my own _room_?” Ollie sniffed, giving Anthea a tragic look.

“You’re the help,” Sherlock said. “Be thankful you don’t have to share with Mycroft.”

Mycroft, as it happened, was located in solitary state several floors below the suite, in a well-decorated, windowless shoebox. It had an en suite and a mini-fridge, but little more.

“But why don’t I get a room to myself?” Ollie whinged.

“Because you’re my bodyguard, which means you have to be in close proximity to my body,” Anthea chimed in. “And before you say anything more, no, that does not mean you may share my bed.”

Ollie gave a theatrical sigh. “You can’t resist me forever,” he said. “I can be patient.”

Anthea gave a crack of laughter. “In what universe?” she said incredulously. “You’re more impatient than Sherlock, and I thought he was the gold standard before I met _you_.”

“You’re mean,” Ollie huffed, and turned on the telly.

 

 

They went out for dinner, after several dull hours scanning material on past competitors, judges, venues and the like. Nothing new was discovered (as Sherlock had predicted before they began. As usual, though, Mycroft’s will prevailed). They had passable German fare—Sherlock rather liked it, as a rule, though _not_ sauerkraut. It was all he could do not to gag from the scent of it wafting from Ollie’s plate.

When they got back to the hotel, Sherlock and Mycroft headed off to their practice appointment. They took the lift to the second floor, and followed their directions to a gilded ballroom, now divided into smaller sections by removable panels. “Their” portion, against fine windows looking out over the city, contained a gleaming black grand piano that had Mycroft making little pleased noises as he opened the keyboard and made a few investigatory runs.

“The quality isn’t quite as good as Mummy’s, but the action is very nice, and it’s well-tuned,” he said.

“It’s probably rarely used by musicians of Mummy’s calibre, so it hardly matters,” Sherlock said. “For our purposes, it could just as easily be a spinet in the basement. You’re a piano snob.”

“Pot, kettle, black,” Mycroft observed. “You’re quite particular about violins, you know.”

“Because I’m the one that’s going to stand in front of several hundred people and compete with one,” Sherlock sniffed. “And it’s rather important that I win, now isn’t it?” Sherlock was _not_ going to think about those several hundred people, and the bright lights on the stage, and the shifting, chattering backstage crowd, and the background hum from the sound system, and— _enough!_ He had to get a handle on this anxiety, or things were going to go very badly indeed.

Mycroft, of course, noticed the momentary pause. “You’re sure you can do this?” he asked quietly, in that hateful, _hateful_ tone of concern that made Sherlock want to tear his lips off.

“How many times must we have this conversation?” Sherlock hissed. “I told you—if I wasn’t sure I could do it, I would have said so.”

Mycroft threw up one pale hand. “All right, all right. You are perfectly calm, and this doesn’t bother you at all. As you said. Now, shall we begin?” He swept into the opening chords, and they were off.

 

 

 

They played well together; always had, actually, since before Sherlock could truly remember (anymore than he could remember learning to play violin. It has always been there, like breathing). They could anticipate each other’s tonal shifts, knew when to lean into notes and when to press forward, knew where the potential trouble spots were, not that there were many of those at this point. Much though Sherlock hated to admit it, some of the happiest moments of his childhood had been spent just like this—in a small room, with a violin, a piano, and his brother.

Sherlock was shocked, when they reached the end of a run-through and Mycroft took his hands off the keyboard, to find that almost four hours had passed.

“It’s past 11,” Mycroft said, and stretched as he rose and closed the keyboard. “Let’s get some rest. I have this space booked again for half an hour at 8:45; we’ll meet for breakfast first, then you can warm up. Audition is at the Gasteig; we can ride over together.”

The irony in that summary was the assertion that either of them would sleep. For Mycroft, it was merely unlikely—he would spend the evening continuing his obsessive research, while worrying about his brother. For Sherlock, it was impossible, and they both knew it.

Mycroft knew where his brother’s thoughts had drifted. He gave a wry smile. “Lie down at least, can you? If you’re too exhausted your hands will shake.”

“I’ll try,” Sherlock said grudgingly. It was true—the more tired he was, the more vulnerable he would be to the assault on his senses from the performance hall and all that went along with it. In the end, though, it was all a matter of degree--his hands _would_ shake, whether he rested or not.

 

 

 

By the time Sherlock got back to the suite, Anthea had already retired for the night. Ollie looked up owlishly from his fold-out bed in the lounge.

“How’d it go?” he asked drowsily. “D’ya need anything?”

Because that was the best thing about Ollie, honestly: for all his storm and fury, he was endlessly accommodating when Sherlock truly needed something. And did so without any implication of future obligation, or sneering about Sherlock’s myriad inadequacies as a functioning human being.

Now, though, Sherlock just waved him off. “Go back to sleep,” he said. “I’m just getting my books, then I’ll be in my room.”

Ollie hummed in agreement. “But come get me if you can’t sleep,” he said firmly, before lying back down and pulling up his blankets. “I know how you get. And none of us want to deal with that tomorrow.”

“Thank you for that vote of confidence,” Sherlock said in an arid tone, and closed the door to his bedroom with a firm push.

 

 

 

 

 

The night went much as Sherlock expected: comfortable bedding, adequate temperature control, fully-stocked mini-fridge and assortment of teas and coffees—and no sleep. He did _try_ —even to the point of drinking a cup of soapy-tasting chamomile tea at about 2, suppressing his instinctive retch. But it was no use; neither his overactive brain nor his sodding anxiety had any intention of sleeping while facing the possibility of personal humiliation, and/or professional disaster, first thing in the morning.

When he finally staggered from his room at just past 7, Anthea was already up, and noises from her en suite indicated Ollie was active as well. When she saw his face, she grimaced.

“That bad?” she asked. “You should have come and gotten me—I have some sleeping aids you could have taken.”

“And risk being semi-sedated while in performance? No, thank you,” Sherlock sniffed.

She nodded—knew that many medications didn’t react well with Sherlock’s neuro-atypical “wiring”. “Well, come have some tea, and then go take your shower—that’ll help, likely. We meet Mycroft downstairs for breakfast in half an hour.”

“Can’t wait,” Sherlock moaned, and grabbed his cup on the way to the shower.

When they got downstairs to the well-appointed café, Mycroft was already comfortably ensconced with tea and a large basket of pastries in front of him. He looked up at their entry and gestured imperiously at the waiter lying in wait against the back wall.

“We should go ahead and order,” he said, as they settled into their chairs. “Service has been a bit slow, and we need to head to warm-up within the hour.”

Sherlock looked at his brother, looked at the menu, tried to think about anything other than (1) his imminent performance; or (2) the urge to spontaneously vomit. Mycroft, no stranger to his brother’s mood in this kind of situation, took charge. “You can manage some toast, I imagine,” he said, careful not to look Sherlock in the eye. It was enough, Sherlock decided—at least Mycroft had the sense not to try to insist on anything more substantial, and toast did, sometimes, have a bit of a settling effect. Not that he’d ever voice any of that, of course. He sat, with studied poor grace, and did several rounds of mental calming exercises while awaiting his dry toast.

He managed half a slice.

Finally ( _thank God!_ ) it was time. Sherlock went back upstairs to gather his violin, Mycroft headed to his shoebox room for the music, and they met back up in the practice space from last evening.

Mycroft was still walking on eggshells, which was both maddening and necessary. “Let’s get started,” he said calmly, opening the keyboard and running through chords while Sherlock tuned and prepared his bow. “I want to leave us roughly fifteen minutes’ grace time before we’re due at the theater.” Unspoken was the rest of that sentence: “ _so you have less time to vibrate in terror in the hallway_ ”.

The run-throughs alternated between stellar and abysmal, with little in-between. Mycroft called a halt after one final shatteringly poor effort, closed the keyboard, and turned to Sherlock. “Can you do this?” he said simply. “This is not me critiquing your work; this is me asking if this operation is something you are capable of bearing up under. You understand my concern.”

And Sherlock did, much though he hated to admit it. Ignoring the fact that he was struggling was illogical; their time was better served by accessing coping methods. “Send them a message,” he gritted out. “Ask them for accommodation. A closed room, limited attendance. If they won’t, they won’t—I will manage. But I would prefer not to pay the price that would cost, given that this is only the first step in a long process.”

Mycroft, to his credit, wasted no time, hurrying out to the lobby where Anthea had their mobile phone. While he was gone, Sherlock forced himself through multiple iterations of his anxiety techniques, ignoring the nausea trying to force itself to his notice. By the time Mycroft returned, eight minutes later, Sherlock could breathe almost normally, and contemplate motion without gagging.

Mycroft was wearing a relieved smile, which grated on Sherlock’s lacerated nerves while simultaneously sending a surge of relief through his system. “All is well,” he said. “The audition has been moved to the small performance venue on the second floor, and attendance is limited to the judging panel and proctors. They were distressed that they had not been informed of your… _situation_ sooner, and wished to express their utmost willingness to meet your needs.” He looked at his watch. “We should go now—the panel is already en route to the new location.”

Sherlock suppressed his instinctive wish to strike out, to rail against such saccharine, pity-laden condescension (a kind he was all too familiar with, and despised). He _had_ asked, after all. He sighed, closed his violin case, and followed his brother out the door.

 

 

 

 

The taxi ride was silent and fraught. Mycroft exuded spurious calm; it would have fooled anyone other than Sherlock, their parents, or Anthea, but was of no use in their current situation. Sherlock wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ open his mouth for fear of what might come out. In the end, silence was the least-damaging option either of them could think of.

They rode the lift to the designated small hall, and Mycroft went to introduce himself to the proctors and panel members. Sherlock was not allowed to speak to either until after the judging was completed, which was all to the good, all things considered. He simply walked to the stage, dropped his case on a long table set up in the wings, and prepped his instrument and bow until Mycroft stepped up to the stage himself and walked to the piano bench.

Mycroft made a show of limbering up his hands, striking through chords and scales to give Sherlock time to run through his performance discipline—the one he’d used in uni, the one that enabled him to block out most of the stimuli around him, at least for a short period. It wasn’t as deep, as intense, as he used for longer performances, but that version cost him a great deal, mentally and physically, one he didn’t want to incur for what should be an easy, comfortable hurdle.

Mycroft hit the opening chords, nodded firmly at his brother, and they began.

 

 

 

 

Sherlock climbed out of the music with a jerk, as Mycroft rose from the bench, placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and folded both of them into a bow before hustling Sherlock off-stage and out of the room. He moved them both quickly down the hallway, glancing into closed rooms until he found an empty practice space and pushed Sherlock inside, closing the door firmly behind them.

Sherlock sat, or fell, roughly into the folding metal chair, wrapping his arms tightly around himself and fighting the urge to rock.

“You can, if you need to,” Mycroft said quietly. That, of course, made Sherlock all the more determined not to, which may have been his brother’s intent.

But, to be fair, likely not.

Sherlock settled for working through what appeared, to the uninformed, to be violin fingering exercises, but were in actuality a mildly effective stim. Mycroft watched in silence for five minutes before leaving the room, coming back shortly after with a large paper cup of water. He held it out, and Sherlock managed to wrap shaking hands around it and drink.

“How did it go?” Sherlock finally managed to croak. “I wasn’t—I don’t remember, for the most part.” It was fairly common, with this kind of demand performance—he could play his part as needed, but functions normally devoted to memory were temporarily diverted to maintaining the necessary distance from disturbing stimuli.

A relieved smile spread over Mycroft’s face. “Well,” he said. “Very, very well. I believe you will place very highly indeed.”

And so it proved—when the results were posted the following morning, “William Scott” headed the list of 34 instrumentalists joining the competition. Round One would begin in three days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For what it's worth, this is much like my own experience of auditions and competitions: hours of boredom, punctuated by brief periods of terror extreme enough that I vividly remember my knees actually physically knocking together. Yes, ladies and gents, that actually can happen outside of cartoons!
> 
> And the Gasteig, the Munich venue for Peeps, is real, and is the home of the University of Music and Performing Arts. Like most such places, it's a huge warren of performance and practice halls, storage rooms, dressing areas, and small practice spaces spread across multiple floors.


	6. Moroi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Peeps competition kicks off, but no one seems terribly happy about it. Sherlock is distressed, Mycroft is secretive, and Anthea is frustrated with both of them. But a conversation with Mycroft reveals things from Sherlock's musical past that brings current events into a troubling light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm so sorry this update took so long. If it makes you feel any better, it took me a month to update my other long work as well--the one I've promised to finish before turning full time to this one. A host of reasons--my startup business is beginning to pull large amounts of time, and my oldest friend came to visit only to have her mother have a stroke while she was here. A good time was not had by all.

**_Moroi—Slavic phantom who leaves the grave to draw energy from the living_ **

****

**_Mycroft_ **

 

The initial round of competition wasn’t set to begin until the following day. That gave Mycroft and his little crew time to think about their approach more closely, and speculate a bit more on who the likely link to the deaths was.

“I suppose it could be the promoters,” Anthea said idly, more than an hour into their unproductive conference that morning. “Lord knows, this process must give them access to foreign banks, unscrupulous parents—all kinds of semi-shady individuals.”

Ollie shook his head. “Nah. Many of the ‘promoters’ change from year to year. Most of them are no more than glorified booking agents for vendors, anyway—it’s not like the competition needs extra publicity or help lining up talent. Even the previous year’s winners are contractually bound to perform at the kick-off concert at no cost. And the ticket proceeds, after paying expenses, go right back into the organization’s coffers to fund next year’s round. No one’s getting rich here.”

Anthea made a little sound of frustration, which set his brother off. Again.

“We _know_ all this,” Sherlock said from his “pacing spot” by the windows, in tones of intense irritation. “Every one of the large groups associated with the competition has been rigourously vetted multiple times. There’s no point in this endless speculation—let’s just start playing our roles and keeping our eyes open. How difficult can it be?”

Mycroft managed, just, to suppress yet another sigh. It had been a long morning.

“If it were not difficult, none of us would be here,” he said sternly. “It was only after an exhaustive evaluation of every possible approach that we landed on this attempt, which was only possible because we had superior musical talent readily available, in an individual young enough to pass for a child. I continue to believe that the only way to solve this is from the inside. And unless you have spontaneously arrived at some other, more palatable solution, I suggest you resign yourself to it, and move on. We do, after all, have work to do. I believe you are supposed to be in your practice space right now, aren’t you?”

And Mycroft knew, _knew_ , he shouldn’t have said that, as soon as it passed his lips. It was too much like their childhood relationship, and unfair when wielded as Sherlock’s erstwhile supervisor. True to form, Sherlock stood, a touch of furious red on his cheekbones, grabbed his violin from the sofa and slammed out the door.

Ollie looked after him, considering following, but caught Anthea’s eye and subsided. Anthea, for her part, looked at her employer and shook her head.

Mycroft let the suppressed sigh free. “I’ll give him some time to cool off before heading over,” he said, ignoring Anthea’s minatory expression. “It will only reinforce the impression that he is neglected.”

“As long as _he_ doesn’t believe that,” Anthea said, and returned to her stack of printouts.

 

 

 

 

After he deemed an acceptable period of time had passed, Mycroft stood gracefully, picked up the sheaf of music from the table, and announced his intention to head over to the venue. He was, after all, needed to provide accompaniment, and he and Sherlock needed to decide on Sherlock’s performance pieces.

Anthea had been surprised when Mycroft mentioned the need for more than one piece. “Can’t he just play the audition one again?” she asked. “From what you say, he does it beautifully, and the judges clearly agreed.”

“That was a simple audition piece,” Mycroft replied. “And he can use it again if need be—if there’s a tie in judging, for example. But he needs at least one or two additional short pieces for the initial performance judging rounds, and a long one for the final night of each venue round, assuming he makes it that far. I brought along several suggestions—things I know he’s done before, either at uni or in private recitals with his instructor.” Unspoken was his private fear that Sherlock would reject all of them out of sheer pique, leading to a last-minute scramble for acceptable alternatives.

He walked over to the venue, hoping the fresh air would bring him some perspective, if not more patience with his brother. He knew he was being somewhat unfair; Sherlock, despite appearances, was not being difficult out of sheer brattiness. His brother, voluntarily or not, was under excruciating pressure, not all of which came from the myriad difficulties of interacting with hordes of strangers and pretending to be several years younger than he was. Performance, much though he adored the music, was hideously difficult for Sherlock—one of the reasons the boy had refused to pursue a career in music, despite Mummy’s pleading that he consider it (“you can always return to chemistry _later_ , dear”). Mycroft, in his deeply-hidden heart, thought it horrible that his brother was given such a gift, but was unable to share it because of his own innate makeup.

He wandered through the maze of hallways, looking for Sherlock’s assigned practice room. In the end, he didn’t really need to look at room numbers—he heard the “distressed cat” wails of Sherlock’s violin from halfway down the hall. Two proctors, deep in conversation, flinched at the sound as they passed.

When Mycroft reached the correct room, he grasped his sheet music tightly and forced himself to a glacial calm before opening the door. The last thing his brother needed, based on the emotion pouring out of his instrument, was _escalation_. Mycroft took one last calming breath and opened the door.

The awful sounds stopped abruptly. “You’re late,” Sherlock snapped, and started fiddling with tuning. He kept his back to his brother, refusing eye contact, not letting Mycroft read his expression.

Well then. First things first.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you so, especially in front of the others.”

Sherlock gave a jerky nod, his back still to his brother. His shoulders were high and hunched.

“I’ve brought a selection of sheet music,” Mycroft offered, thinking a change of subject was in order. “We should probably pick 2 short pieces, plus your long one. Do you have any preferences?”

“I will be playing the Mendelssohn for my long piece. The first two movements,” Sherlock said, turning slowly around to face his brother. “You can choose the two short pieces—I don’t care.” His face was white and set.

Mycroft managed to keep his shock from showing on his face, but it was a lost cause to keep it from his voice. “But you haven’t—”

Before he could get out another word, Sherlock whipped his violin back to his shoulder and launched into the fiery series of pyrotechnics that marked the early part of the 1st movement of the piece. It wasn’t flawless, if only because of Sherlock’s emotional state, but the capability was clearly there.

Mycroft was aware his mouth was unattractively open. “You’ve kept it up?” he finally managed. “All this time?” And, before he could stop himself, “Is that wise?”

In response, Sherlock whirled, dropped his violin in it’s case, and forcefully shoved his brother out of the small space before Mycroft could react. The decisive click of the lock was an exclamation point to Sherlock’s fury.

Mycroft stood indecisively in the hall for more than two minutes, trying to decide if knocking would make things better or worse. In the end, he sighed, bent and placed the sheaf of sheet music on the floor just outside the door, and walked away.

 

 

 

 

The first official function of the competition was at noon—a mass luncheon meeting for all contestants and their families, to give detailed information on how the competition would progress, provide each child and their sponsor(s) with a rule book, and introduce the children to their assigned mentors. Attendance was mandatory, and Mycroft was on tenterhooks as to whether his brother would attend.

The rest of them headed down to the ballroom after waiting for Sherlock in the suite until the last possible second. Ollie trotted off to grab the lift, but Anthea stayed back and grabbed at Mycroft’s arm, holding him back.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “Why are you so concerned, and why is Sherlock so, um, _distressed_?”

Mycroft almost, _almost_ snapped at her, but managed to hold it back—it was, after all, only fair she should know about something that could affect their mission. He sighed, then nodded. “Later,” he said. “After we get this meeting out of the way.”

Anthea frowned, but nodded, and they headed to where Ollie was impatiently holding the lift doors open.

Ollie noticed, of course. “What?” he said. “What’s going on? Why are you both all frowny?” Seeing Mycroft’s repressive face, he signed theatrically. “When one of these secrets of yours gets me killed, you’re going to be very sorry. See if you aren’t.”

“This one won’t,” Mycroft said serenely, and pushed the “down” button.

“And it’s really none of your business,” Anthea added as the doors closed. Ollie scowled but subsided.

 

 

 

 

Mycroft was relieved, on entering the ballroom for the luncheon, to spy his brother standing testily next to what was presumably their table. He looked at least somewhat calmer than earlier, thankfully.

“You’re late,” Sherlock announced as they reached him.

“We were waiting for you, upstairs,” Ollie said. “You know, like we _agreed_.”

“Did we?” Sherlock asked airily. “I don’t recall.” The irony was, he probably didn’t.

The lunch was predictable, and a little dull. Several earnest luminaries made speeches, the past winners, seated at a central table, were introduced, then lunch was served—passable, but nothing special. Ollie was the only one to finish his meal. But then, Ollie was never inclined to pass up free food.

After the meal was cleared away, one of the elite from the center table stood, and waved forward a group of people from the surrounding tables.

“I’d like to introduce you to your mentors for the competition,” she said in German-accented English, waving her arm at the smiling group behind her. “If you open your program booklets, you will see your assigned mentor, as well as the time for your introductory meetings tomorrow. Please make sure you’re on time; the mentors have several charges each, so must allocate their time carefully. But, once you’ve met, they are available to you at any time. Please do not hesitate to ask for their help; especially for those of you who are here without parents or family, they can make all the difference in your comfort during the competition.”

Sherlock leaned forward. “For however short your individual stays may be,” he murmured, and received an admonitory smack on the arm from Anthea.

At the front of the room, the woman droned through the name of each mentor, as each person in turn gave a little bow and wave. Mycroft flipped through Sherlock’s documents and found his assigned mentor: Isidore Taubman. Matching the picture against the people lined at the front of the room, he located the man—small, elderly, but spritely. Sherlock might actually enjoy him—the old man looked a bit mischievous, somehow.

As the mentors sat back down, the woman took up the microphone again. “Now, I know you’re all anxious to get back to practicing,” she said. “But we’ve found, over the years, that competitors do much better, mentally and in their performances, if we leaven that ‘work’ time with a bit of play here and there. And tonight is one of the best examples of that. This evening at 8 will be our Kickoff Concert. In addition to a performance by our resident symphony, last year’s vocal and orchestral winners will each be performing solo pieces. We will expect to see all of you there. And, after that, to get as good a night’s sleep as you can,” she concluded, with a wry smile. And with that, lunch was over, and they were all at loose ends again.

Once they were back in the suite, they debated their approach for the concert.

“I don’t think we can send you on your own,” Anthea said. “They made such a point of talking about families, and I think even the most neglectful ones would make a token effort at the start, don’t you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Are we really discussing just how neglected I should appear?” he said. “Wouldn’t it be easier for Ollie to hit me a time or two, and go off with some poorly-concealed bruises?”

Ollie moved over next to Sherlock and pulled back his arm expectantly. Mycroft gave him a chastising look, and he deflated and sat back down.

“I agree with Anthea, to some degree,” Mycroft said. “Sudden, complete abandonment might seem a bit contrived. But I would like to consider which grouping would engender the most comment, while still being believable. Let’s table this until after our afternoon practice session, shall we?”

And with that, a scowling Sherlock in tow, Mycroft headed back to the venue, to their small room, to his piano duties.

 

 

 

 

In the end, they all went to the kickoff concert. Mycroft, in making the arrangements, had paid for tickets in a small box, so there was room only for the four of them. Sherlock and Anthea pulled chairs right up to the front, Mycroft wedged himself in between and slightly behind them, and Ollie stood threateningly at the back, arms crossed across his chest when he remembered to do so.

“He’s seen one too many gangster movies,” Anthea whispered, and beamed when Sherlock snickered and looked over his shoulder.

Once the music started, though, Sherlock was lost to them. He was enrapt—eyes riveted to the stage, leaning rhythmically as if bowing along with the orchestra, beating time with his foot.

Mycroft noticed Anthea’s eyes on his brother a number of times, a mildly troubled expression on her face. He raised his eyebrows inquiringly, but she gave a little head shake and mouthed “later”, then returned to watching Sherlock.

As soon as the performance completed (with a stellar performance by last year’s winner, a tiny 16-year-old with a huge operatic voice) and the lights came up, Sherlock stayed stock-still for nearly five minutes before bolting from his seat as if set on fire. Anthea stared after him indecisively, and Ollie came to join them.

Mycroft, after thinking about it momentarily, erred on the side of caution. “Go after him, please, Oliver,” he said, as Ollie nodded. “Keep your distance—remember, we want our adversary to think him unsupported and largely alone. But…don’t let him do anything stupid, please?” he concluded, resisting the urge to take Ollie’s place and go himself. Ollie nodded again, and set off in pursuit.

 

 

 

 

 

As soon as they reached the suite, Anthea pounced. “All right,” she said. “What’s going on? Why is Sherlock wound tighter than a watch spring, and you look like you’re afraid he’s going to start blowing things up momentarily?” She dropped heavily onto the sofa, and waved him to her side. He went, with a certain amount of reluctance.

“You may have noticed that Sherlock is exceptionally high-strung at present,” he began. “And perhaps you’ve presumed that is the result of the weight on his shoulders for this mission—his responsibility to do well enough to ensure he moves forward, at least long enough for us to conclude our investigations. And you’d be partially correct.”

“But…” Anthea coaxed.

“But there’s more to it than that,” he agreed. “He’s not…this is not his first exposure to Peeps,” he managed, and Anthea gaped at him.

“When?” she said. “And won’t that be a problem? I mean, some of these same people were—”

“He had just turned 12,” Mycroft interjected. “And no, it’s extremely unlikely he would be recognized. He of course auditioned under his real name, and he was much smaller—very small for his age, in fact. His hair was somewhat lighter, with more visible red in it, and much longer than he wears it now. When he was small he hated haircuts, so it didn’t happen until absolutely necessary.” He remembered that small figure labouring up the steps to the stage. “He worked so hard to get there,” he sighed.

“So what happened?” Anthea said. “Did he play poorly? Just didn’t make the cut?”

“In some ways that might have been easier,” Mycroft said. “He had made it through the initial audition with relatively little stress. Because of his age, he was allowed to have his tutor in the room with him, and the audition had a limited audience—it was held in one of the smallest performance spaces. Mummy had traveled with him and acted as his accompanist. I came as well, but had no involvement in the process beyond moral support. When he came out, he was incandescent with happiness. He had worked for almost two years to get to that point. Just standing on a stage, with the harsh lights, the noise, the equipment, was profoundly difficult for him—Mummy worked with him on that endlessly, and I took him on a number of backstage visits at Cambridge to get him accustomed to it.”

“But…” Anthea said again, and Mycroft realized his voice had trailed off, lost in memory.

“But,” Mycroft sighed, “it was all for naught. He advanced easily to the main competition, and was scheduled to play his first full performance for the assembled panel of judges and various important musical types the following evening. It would be his first short piece—his long piece was reserved for the finals, if he got there. He had been working for almost a year on that. But this shorter piece—the Bach Violin Concerto Number One—he loved, and was very comfortable playing. That was my idea, actually—choosing a piece that was difficult but not daunting for this first effort, to ease him into competition. And it seemed to work, initially—his rehearsals went swimmingly, and he adored working with the small chamber orchestra who would support him on stage, rather than just Mummy’s piano.”

“He was unable to eat dinner that evening, but we expected that,” Mycroft continued. “He was jittery, pale—again, nothing we didn’t expect. We got to the performance hall a little early, to let him get comfortable with the lights and the size. That was our first intimation of trouble—he was very distressed by the large overhead light bars, insisting he could hear them, painfully so. We requested they be turned down as far as possible, and the staff attempted to accommodate us.”

Mycroft stretched to release the sudden tension he felt in his jaw and shoulders. “When they called ‘time’, Mummy slipped down to sit in the front row with the rest of the parents, so that Sherlock could hopefully see her, after a fashion, though he said later that he could see nothing but light glares. I pulled in a favour and was allowed to stand in the wings, so I was able to see him clearly from the time they called his name. Each contestant was seated in the orchestra pit until time for their performance, so he was required to walk across in front of the stage, then climb the steps and come right across, in front of the assembled audience, to take his place in front of the orchestra. And I watched him climb, slowing with each step, and I knew. I knew this would end badly. I wasn’t sure how, but…”

Anthea leaned forward, sympathy radiating from every pore. It helped, a bit. Not much.

“He froze,” Mycroft said baldly. “He reached his position. He looked at the orchestra; he looked at the conductor, then away. He put his violin to his shoulder, tried to put his bow up, and stopped. Couldn’t continue. Then he put his violin back down to his side, put his bow hand up to his mouth, and closed his eyes…and began, very, very slightly, to rock. That was the point at which I went out, picked him up, and carried him off the stage.”

“Poor little mite,” Anthea said shakily. “Poor baby.”

“Just so,” Mycroft said, his voice just as shaky. It was a memory he had tried, very hard, to bury deep enough that it would no longer be so troublesome. He hadn’t succeeded.

After a pause in which both of them recovered themselves, he continued, somewhat calmer now. “The aftermath was very bad indeed. He suffered a serious breakdown—multiple meltdowns, sedation, there was even talk of his taking a term off from school, though in the end he managed to avoid that. But I took the opportunity to begin teaching him techniques, largely gleaned from both my own experience, and from a therapist friend of our father, to manage his anxiety and temporarily subdue his sensory issues. By the time the spring term the following year rolled around, he managed to audition for the school orchestra and excel, both as a soloist and as a member of the ensemble. He continued through university, by which time he seriously considered continuing. But, in the end, the price was much too high. Those disciplines are _temporary_ , like a patch over a damaged pipe. Once the patch is removed, the ‘backflow’ is enormous and painful. He experiences vicious migraines that occasionally last for days, nausea, dizziness—typical expressions of sensory overload. He reluctantly decided he couldn’t spend his life that way.”

They passed a long, contemplative silence together. Finally Anthea spoke.

“So, putting him in this competition—was it really a good idea?” she asked.

“Very likely not,” Mycroft said.

 

 

 

 

 

Mycroft jerked awake to a coal-dark room, aware only of movement somewhere that had awakened him. He strained to avoid giving the intruder any clue that he was awake and planning his attack, while slowly rearranging his limbs to make a sudden leap easier. That was forestalled when a weight suddenly dropped on the foot of his bed—a weight that huffed and subsided onto its back, sprawling across 2/3 of the bed.

“I want this,” Sherlock said suddenly, quietly. “I don’t know why.”

Mycroft shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts enough (and drain off the now-unnecessary excess adrenaline enough) to have a coherent conversation with his little brother at half-three in the morning.

“The competition?” he asked warily. “You want to win?”

Mycroft could just see Sherlock’s shaggy head shake. “No, not exactly,” he said. “It’s…I want to _play_ ,” he said wistfully. “I want people to hear. I want the orchestra to follow, and it all to flow together. I know it’s absurd—it’s a contest for _children_ , for God’s sake.”

“If we were having this conversation only a year ago, you would have been a legitimate contestant,” Mycroft said. “It’s not like all of the competitors are too young to drive. And you know as well as I that virtually all of the eventual winners have been at least 16, and mostly 17 or 18.”

Sherlock made an indistinct sound that contained both frustration and confusion. “Perhaps,” he said finally. “But why do I _care_?”

“Perhaps because you invested so much in it before, and it ended…it ended prematurely,” Mycroft said delicately.

Sherlock was silent for some time. Then—“Was that cowardly of me?” he asked, in a voice that said he thought it had been.

Mycroft shook his head vehemently, even though he knew his brother likely couldn’t see. “No,” he said firmly, investing all his conviction in his tone. “I have seen few braver things in my life than you, climbing up on that stage as if going to your execution, but continuing to climb.”

There was another long pause. “Really?” finally came, in a small voice.

“Yes,” Mycroft said, and waited for a response. Instead his brother sighed again, stood, and went silently out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Mendelssohn Violin Concerto is one of my favorite pieces of music, and a standard for aspiring violin soloists. It's both fiendishly difficult, and blaringly flashy. And, amazingly enough, I once saw it played by a 12-year-old girl, with the Boston Symphony. Here's a good video of it. If nothing else, watch the first 90 seconds--those are the "pyrotechnics" Sherlock rips through for Mycroft.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I03Hs6dwj7E


End file.
